He turned and looked into the fire as he said—
“When did Sydney write that letter, mother?”
“Before meeting you at the wedding. She has not written since.”
“I thought not,” muttered Jock, his brow against the mantel-piece.
“No, but Mrs. Evelyn has written such a nice letter, just like herself, though I did not understand it then. I think she was doubtful how much I knew, for she only said how thankworthy it must be to have such a self-sacrificing spirit among my sons, moral courage, in fact, of the highest kind, and how those who were lavish of strong words in their first disappointment would be wiser by-and-by. I was puzzled then. But oh, my dear, this must have been very grievous to you!”
“I couldn’t go back, but I did not know how it would be,” said Jock, in a choked voice, collapsing at last, and hiding his face on his mother’s lap.
“My Jock, I am so sorry! I wish it were not too late. I could not have let you give up so much,” and she fondled his head. “I did not think I had been so weak as to let you see.”
“No, mother. It was not that you were so weak, but that you were so brave. Besides, I ought to take the brunt of it. I ruined you all by being the prime mover with that assification, and I was the cause of Armie’s illness too. I ought to take my share. If ever I can be any good to any one again,” he added, in a dejected tone.
“Good!—unspeakably good! This is my first bright spot of light through the wood. If it were but bright to you! I am afraid they have been very unkind.”
“Not unkind. She couldn’t be that, but I’ve shocked and disappointed her,” and his head dropped again.